"There’s an episode from Everybody Loves Raymond in which the eponymous Ray Barone doodles a draft of the eulogy he would want to give at his father’s funeral. In the speech, Ray includes a memory showing his dad’s softer side: the time when he spotted his dad petting the family bunny. Frank (Ray’s dad) finds out about the speech and, after hearing about the bunny story, vehemently denies the event ever happened. Feeling astonished and gaslit, Ray finally yells at his dad, saying the only reason he included it was because (to his dad) “You were the toughest son of a bitch I ever knew.”
Frank, stone-faced, replies, “You gonna put that in?”
A war man in his youth, Frank intended to remain cast in that light, gnashed teeth and clenched fists and all. So naturally, he worried that Ray’s sweet memory of him threatened the “tough guy” image he’d for so long kept intact. My dad was tough. And like Frank Barone, I think he was happy I knew it.
My Boomer Dad Had a ‘Tough Guy’ Persona
Being the gruff stoic, the man in the room least likely to be “messed with,” was once a value passed down from father to son without hesitation. It was a source of pride and essential for boys to grow into men; we kids needed this “toughening up” so that the world couldn’t push us around. We needed to rid ourselves of naïveté and punch anyone in the mouth who disrespects us.
Being “old-school” tough, as I learned, mostly meant not revealing any side of yourself that leaves you vulnerable. My Boomer dad was so good at concealing his emotions from me, in fact, that I never noticed him treating my sisters any differently; it took my (then) 25-year-old sister to convince my (then) 32-year-old brain that my dad routinely told her he loved her. So he wasn’t against exposing emotions after all. He simply preferred to shield me—his only son—from something… something he was scared of, or wasn’t proud of, or was simply unfamiliar with.
Defining the Kind of Father I Want to Be
My dad passed away when he was 48—14 years ago now—so I’ve got no way to verify if he was consciously or unconsciously adhering to this unwritten fathering rule. One thing I know for sure, though, is that this brand of hand-me-down toughness is not necessary anymore. It’s not disqualifying for men to show their feelings, be transparent about their faults, or to simply escape, survive, and fight another day. My dad reiterated a lot of the ideals that his dad shared with him, and none of it allowed for this type of vulnerability. I’d be called “Mary” for showing weakness and “weak” for being irresolute.
“One thing I know for sure is that this brand of hand-me-down toughness is not necessary anymore.”
But now, after having two children of my own—a girl and a boy—I can see this for what it was: a cultural norm, a virtue representing a bygone era when these character traits served any man well. As I’ll explain throughout this article, these aren’t the days we’re living in.
How I’m Parenting Differently Than My Boomer Dad
The below five rules—a list very likely to grow—explain my parenting philosophy and how it contrasts with the generations before me. It’s worth noting that this is not a referendum on “bad” parenting; as my dad did before me, and his dad did before him (and so on), every parent can only respond to the moment, to the context and culture of the world around them. Acknowledging this, I can respect the old rules and discard them in one breath. Only time will tell if the adjustments I’m making now are enough to meet the current moment.
1. I Tell My Son I Love Him
I grew up aware, but not overly concerned, that my Boomer dad didn’t verbalize his feelings toward me. That changed with his diagnosis. He had to have surgery to remove the tumor attached to his brain stem, and before the doctor arrived, our whole family got the chance to say goodbyes masked as good luck.
I didn’t know what to expect entering that room. But when my dad told me to look after his girls—my twin sisters, who were only 5 at the time—I took his request as a mandate, as the life mission he’d been grooming me for the last 20 years; it was now my turn to protect the family the same way my dad protected us. I was so wrapped up in the new identity my dad gave me that I forgot, in that moment, in the pre-op room, all about what I wanted to say to him… and what I hoped to hear from him.
When my dad died just a few weeks later, reality set in. He was gone, and I had dramatically underestimated just how difficult it would be to see my new life’s mission through. This was because I was missing something, something too hard to identify in the moment, something that would have instilled confidence in me whenever I lost it.
That thing I needed was words, his words. I needed to hear how he felt about me. I needed to hear “I love you.”
Long before I became a parent, I vowed to not let my son doubt how I feel about him. My dad loved me, I know that. But living through this experience taught me that this simple phrase can act as a deterrent to self-doubt, and the absence of it can add fuel to a burgeoning fire.
2. I Let My Children “Disrespect” Their Elders
“Respect” might have been my parents’ favorite word. In their view, they had it, and we (their kids) had to earn it. The same pretty much went for all adults. Coaches, teachers, principals, bosses… they all entered our relationship with my respect, but it was on me to convince them I deserved theirs.
I’m hesitant to say there’s no merit to respecting one’s elders, but I’ve also seen firsthand how damaging it can be to relationships when respect isn’t mutual. My parents, I think, had it right in a way. Respect is important; a relationship depends on it like a plant needs water. But when respect is only unidirectionally granted, the relationship suffers, wilting from an insufficient life force.
“Respect is important; a relationship depends on it… But when respect is only unidirectionally granted, the relationship suffers.”
I don’t see the parent-child relationship any differently. I don’t view “parent” as a title; it’s a role, one I’m proud to have and one I take seriously. And in my view, parents don’t deserve immunity simply because they are parents.
While I will “know better” than my kids in countless situations—at least until they accumulate enough life experiences to craft independent worldviews—I don’t disallow their views. I’m fine with their disagreements. I’m fine with them “talking back” and “acting out,” too.
I’m also happy to hear them point out when I’m treating them unfairly. This isn’t always easy in the moment, but I believe that, as the one who has significantly more life experience, I should be mindful of this difference, which often means providing enough freedom for them to experiment with their words and actions.
This means I don’t always have the final word. It also means that I need to hold myself to the standards I’m asking of them.
My wife and I have rules; parents can’t do their job without them, and kids, quite inconspicuously, want them, too. But it’s important to recognize the difference between what is good or bad and what’s merely ideal or less than ideal. Having my child’s respect is ideal. I want it, and at times feel like I need it. But I know from experience that one of the only ways guaranteed to lose it is by demanding it.
3. I Make Myself and My Relationships More of a Focus
Telling your kids “no” is all about context. It’s easy to deny them things that could be harmful, for example, but even when the reasoning is obvious to you, it can still be difficult to explain why (and have them understand it).
What happens, though, when you want to say no to your kids for trivial or shallow reasons? For things that, you might decide for yourself, could be considered “selfish” or “bad”?
I don’t know a single parent who couldn’t use a day off, but I know plenty who tell me they simply can’t. But what happens if do you it anyway? You consult your spouse, agree to the terms, and then what? What do you tell your kids then?
Most parents I know would feel guilty skipping a soccer game “just because.” Or letting their kid go to school without a bath or having brushed their teeth. Or, especially egregious, meditating or reading a book while the babysitter is downstairs dealing with your two crying kids.
My parents wouldn’t have any of it. And their parents would judge these scenarios especially severely. But these forms of self-care are being employed daily by millennial and younger parents. And, being a millennial myself, I often take time for myself simply because I feel like I need it when I need it. And I encourage my wife to do the same. It’s taken me some time, but I know that I’m a better dad and husband when I feel like the rest of my life is under a reasonable degree of control. Sometimes, that requires setting aside my primary duties, including any guilt or shame about alone time that follows.
“I often take time for myself simply because I feel like I need it when I need it. And I encourage my wife to do the same.”
Of course, there are often impracticalities to work around and logistics to think through. Our oldest child is just a toddler; with each passing year, she’ll have more significant demands on our time. And this says nothing about our infant son who will double our workload.
To me, this means we’ll simply need to work harder over time to protect my wife’s and my self-care time. It means putting our date nights on the calendar and only overwriting them with emergencies when they arise.
Importantly, I’ve decided that I won’t use excuses to cover for my needs. I’ve known men from my father’s era, specifically, who’ve let work turn from a profound sense of duty to a necessary escape hatch, used more frequently as the demands at home increase.
I recognize how fortunate I am to even have an “opt-out” option. So many factors about the world we live in contribute to my ability to do so. I owe a lot to my wife, first and foremost, but both of our jobs also afford us significant flexibility—flexibility my parents never had. We also don’t suffer from the stifling and judgmental environment that saw parenting duties as strictly selfless, to what I would describe as extreme degrees.
For these things, I am so thankful.
But it’s also important to note that we’re not just being selfish: spending time away from our kids and being honest with them about our needs as individuals (not just parents) is backed up by research. Dr. Becky Kennedy, author of probably my favorite parenting book, Good Inside, argues quite convincingly that kids who learn this type of boundary from their parents end up feeling more secure and safe, not less. And we know from basic psychology how foundational these things are to flourishing human lives.
4. I Replace Timeouts With Conversations
Good Inside taught me quite a lot about parenting, but the book is mostly about one simple idea, which is that individual behaviors do not equal a person’s worth; they should never compromise what Dr. Becky calls our “internal goodness.”
We’ve all felt like our worst selves at times; we’ve been embarrassed by or ashamed of what we did or said as parents. And in the process, our self-blame can send us spiraling.
Kids are no different, except that they have an added layer complicating things: Their ability to regulate emotions is not yet developed. This is why kids have “tantrums”; their feelings are too strong in that moment to know how to handle them more maturely. And while these situations aren’t easy for the child, they’re also difficult to manage as the parent. According to Dr. Becky, though, when we’re so focused on controlling our child’s behavior, we often find ourselves doing the exact opposite of what they really need.
“When we’re so focused on controlling our child’s behavior, we often find ourselves doing the exact opposite of what they really need.”
Enter timeouts. This is one of many strategies meant to curb or alter “bad” behavior, one I endured routinely during childhood. Unfortunately, they don’t work. More specifically, they don’t stop the same bad behavior from happening again. Their “value” is exclusively in distancing ourselves and our children from the moment—and from each other—so that the situation doesn’t take an even more volatile turn.
Taking a moment to cool off alone can help us as adults… but it doesn’t work the same way for kids. In their tough moments, what’s needed is closeness, emotional validation, reassurance, and love. When left alone after displaying particularly erratic behavior, children do one of two things: They deny their reality, or they tell themselves they’re bad. Both have deleterious effects.
When actions are labeled only as “good” or “bad,” punishable or not, and only parents know how to tell which is which, there’s no room left for children to learn the consequences of their actions. When a child concludes their behavior means they’re a bad person, and therefore unworthy of their parents’ affection, this restricts their ability to develop emotional regulation skills that could have prevented the situation resulting in a timeout in the first place.
I won’t ignore my child’s breakdowns or cast them to an island to wallow in their internal “badness.” Instead, I ask questions, get curious about their behavior, and think about what else is going on in their lives, all of which I can use as information to draw from to help them right their own ship.
5. I Expose My Fears and Failures
If there’s one word that describes how previous generations think about ours, it’s probably “worry.”
And why? Information. We have too much of it. And we think we know better because we have it. We pathologize and overshare and need too much. This is why I can empathize with the 20th-century model of parenting. We’ve made the job of parenting tougher by seeking improvement, by noticing and calling out inequities.
This is why I can understand why my dad and his dad stuck to the simplistic ideal of toughness. Faults could be adjudicated after they were gone and after they’d done their job raising us to adulthood. They didn’t expect friendship with their grown children.
My Boomer dad believed we should know how they feel about us because we’re family and that should be enough—the words aren’t necessary. Each of these ideas preserves energy and time. This parenting model myopically served to build families.
So when the model our Boomer parents used broke, when it turned out that we couldn’t simply ignore our human needs, Boomers didn’t think it needed fixing; they thought it was our fault. Millennials were the soft ones—the needy generation. Families were built, after all, weren’t they?
I’m not denying our parents did their jobs. But that doesn’t mean I need to continue deploying outdated ideals unaligned with modern research, as well as my own experience.
The hardest ideal for me to part with so far, though, has been (not) showing my kids how I feel. It’s plenty of work already to help them navigate their own feelings. But things complicate quickly when erasing the hard line my dad drew. Once I stepped over it, once my kids saw me cry, I feared, there was no coming back. They would question my status and ability as their protector, and I knew just how important that was to them.
This fear, thankfully, was not justified. I’ve cried enough times already in front of my daughter to know that it hasn’t stopped her from seeking emotional shelter with me. When my anger or frustration gets the best of me, and I follow that up with a sincere acknowledgment, my daughter accepts that, accepts me, and continues to want me to play with her.
“I’ve cried enough times already in front of my daughter to know that it hasn’t stopped her from seeking emotional shelter with me.”
I don’t want my kids to think of me as my last behavior. I also still fear cracks in the protector foundation that I’m so proud to offer them, as my dad was for me. But I don’t want my kids to see me as completely faultless. I don’t want to be a tyrant, and I don’t want to be a god. I want them to see me as human, that effort matters, and that failure happens. And when it does, I’ll own up to it, wearing my heart on my sleeve as I do.
I very rarely got a glimpse into my dad’s inner concerns. But the things about him that stick out for me, in the end, are the ones that seem to contradict his self-asserted toughness. I loved him for who he was, and I admired him for what he did, but in the end, the fondest memories I have of him are when he would hug me, play with me, or when he would, on occasion, pet the family bunny.
